To The Brink
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: AU tag to 6.11 – One minute Sam was screaming...and the next, he wasn't even breathing. He had lost consciousness the instant Death had disappeared from the panic room, and how they had ended up in the emergency room was still a blur to Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** AU tag to 6:11 – One minute Sam was screaming...and the next, he wasn't even breathing. He had lost consciousness the instant Death had disappeared from the panic room, and how they had ended up in the emergency room was still a blur to Dean.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Warnings:** Just the usual for language. Also obviously contains spoilers for episode 6:11

**Author's Note:** I know I've already done an AU tag for 6:11, but that was before I actually watched the episode. I had just read a couple of reviews and watched the ending clip on YouTube. But after I finally watched the entire episode yesterday, this came to mind.

* * *

**A white blank page and a swelling rage**

**You did not think when you sent me to the brink.**

**~ Mumford & Sons ~**

**

* * *

**

Okay, here's the question: What are you doing when you aren't doing anything at all?

Most people will answer "nothing," and while they will have aced a test in logic, they will have flunked a test in neuroscience.

Because even when you're doing nothing, you're doing something, though you won't realize it until it's gone. Blocked by an injury or an illness or...say, a wall.

But we're jumping ahead of ourselves.

Let's back up.

When people perform mental tasks – comparing, contrasting, categorizing, problem solving – different areas of their brains become active, as evidenced by brightly colored squares on brain scans.

That's no surprise.

But researchers have recently discovered that when these areas of our brains light up, other areas go dark. This so-called dark network – comprised of regions in the frontal, parietal, and temporal lobes – is off when we seem to be on, and on when we seem to be off. When you think you're doing nothing, the dark network within your brain is as active as a beehive; but the moment you begin a task, the bees will freeze, and the network will fall silent.

So, even when we appear to be doing nothing, we are clearly doing something.

But what?

The answer, it seems, is time travel.

Just not in the way that you expect.

The human body moves forward in time at the rate of one second per second whether we like it or not. But the human mind can move through time in any direction and at any speed it chooses. We have the ability – unparalleled in the animal kingdom – to close our eyes and imagine the pleasures of Super Bowl Sunday or remember the excesses of New Year's Eve. We are a race of time travelers, unfettered by chronology and capable of visiting the future or revisiting the past whenever we wish.

At least most of us are.

But if our neural time machines are damaged by illness, injury, or age...or blocked by something else, something unidentifiable...we may become trapped in the present. The dark network becomes incapacitated, stranding many of its victims in an endless now, unable to remember their yesterdays or envision their tomorrows.

Such would be the case.

* * *

"He's had a what?" Dean asked sharply, certain he had heard wrong. His brother wasn't even 30-years old. No way that could be his diagnosis.

The doctor pointed again at the CT scan printout within the folder positioned between himself and Dean as they stood in the hall of the Intensive Care Unit. "A hemorrhagic stroke."

Dean said nothing, too stunned to react.

_You're playing pretty fast and loose with my life here, don't you think, Dean? It's my life. It's my soul. And it sure as hell isn't your head that's going to explode when this whole scheme of yours goes sideways._

There was silence.

Bobby cleared his throat. "What caused it?"

"What the fuck do you think caused it?" Dean growled, his body practically vibrating with the rage that ran through it as he remembered standing passively by a different door a few hours ago, watching as Death restored Sam's soul.

_Sam, I'm your brother. I'm not gonna let you get hurt. I know what I'm doing here. _

_And what if you're wrong?_

_I won't let it go wrong._

And yet it had gone wrong.

One minute Sam was screaming...and the next, he wasn't even breathing. He had lost consciousness the instant Death had disappeared from the panic room, and how they had ended up in the emergency room was still a blur to Dean.

"Well..." the doctor began, answering Bobby's question as though Dean hadn't asked his own. "In patients Sam's age, we often suspect physical trauma to be the cause of intracranial bleeding. But since Sam has not sustained a head injury traumatic enough to cause this, we would suspect nontraumatic causes, such as a ruptured aneurysm. But even that doesn't seem likely in this case, since Sam does not present with a subarachnoid hemorrhage."

"A sub...what?" Dean asked distractedly, too busy staring at his brother through the door's thin window and plotting ways to kill Death.

"A subarachnoid hemorrhage," the doctor repeated. "It's characteristic of a ruptured aneurysm, but the CT scan doesn't show that." He pointed to the printout again, as if the black and white images meant anything to anyone other than himself. "As you can see here, there's an intracerebral hemorrhage – meaning bleeding within the brain. We typically see that in patients with chronically high blood pressure, when a small artery is weakened over time, causing it to burst. But again, that condition is rare in patients who are your brother's age and in his excellent physical condition." He paused. "Does Sam have high blood pressure?"

Dean shook his head.

No, Sam didn't have high blood pressure...except if the doctor wanted to count that time a few hours ago when the combination of physical, emotional, and psychological trauma most likely sent his little brother's heart rate and blood pressure off the charts.

Getting your soul forcefully restored would do that to you every time.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

_Fuck._

"I didn't think so," the doctor responded, making a note in the chart he held. "Like I said, patients Sam's age and in his condition usually don't." He paused again, glancing between the two men in front of him. "Is Sam..." He cleared his throat. This next part always got a reaction. "Is he an addict?"

"Not anymore," Dean responded defensively, not even realizing how quickly he answered. "Sam's clean."

The doctor's eyebrows raised, creating deep wrinkled grooves across his forehead. "But he _has_ been a user in the past?"

Dean didn't reply; didn't want to talk about it; didn't like the judgment he heard in the doctor's tone that he had once heard in his own. What was done was done, and Sam had more than paid for it.

Bobby glanced at Dean, knowing this was a sensitive topic with the older brother; knowing Dean wasn't going to answer by the stubborn set of his jaw. "Yeah," he confirmed himself with a sigh, because this is what Sam wanted. "He used to have a problem."

The doctor nodded, poised to jot more notes in the folder he held. "What did he use?"

"Meth," Bobby answered without a blink – because that's the way they had practiced it – and yet he still saw Dean flinch at the word.

In the time after Lucifer was free and before Famine paid a visit, Sam had done research, determined to figure out which illicit drug matched the effects of demon blood, determined to find a way to list his past addiction on medical history forms in case it ever mattered in his care.

And Sam had decided on methamphetamine.

"When methamphetamine is injected – or in my case, ingested – it immediately produces an intensely pleasurable sensation known as a 'rush' or a 'flash' by releasing high levels of dopamine in the brain," Sam had read to them from the laptop screen one night at Bobby's place.

It had been important to Sam to make a comparison between a drug and the demon blood, but it had been incredibly difficult to listen to him rattle off the effects they had all lived through – increased wakefulness and physical activitiy, decreased appetite, prolonged insomnia, irritability, violent behavior, anxiety, paranoia...and the list went on.

The doctor shook his head in frustration. "I've seen so many kids get mixed up with meth..." he commented. "How long did he use?"

"Longer than he should have," Dean snapped. "What does it matter? That's not what caused this."

The doctor shrugged. "Most likely not – especially since you say Sam is clean now..."

"He is," Dean assured, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

Besides, Soulless Sam was psychotic enough; he hadn't needed the extra boost of demon blood. And weren't they all grateful the two had never mixed?

"Good for him," the doctor responded sincerely. "I just needed to ask because meth can cause increased heart rate and blood pressure, sometimes leading to intracerebral hemorrhage." He sighed. "But since all usual suspects in this condition have been ruled out, we'll have to start considering less common causes such as other blood vessel abnormalities, tumors, vasculitis, bleeding disorders, or..."

"...having your soul shoved through your chest into your body," Dean finished, once again staring through the thin window at his brother.

The doctor frowned and shook his head. "Say what now?"

Dean didn't respond – finished with this conversation, needing to be with his brother – and instead sidestepped around the doctor and entered Sam's room, leaving Bobby to cover.

The doctor glanced over his shoulder as Dean closed the door and then turned his attention back to Bobby. "What did he say?"

"He's just thinking out loud," Bobby replied, then realized that probably wasn't a good answer since Dean's suggested cause didn't even exist in the doctor's mind.

"Thinking out loud?" the doctor repeated, clearly confused and a little concerned.

"You know how stress can make you say crazy things," Bobby commented, even as he knew Dean was right.

Just as Sam had been right.

_When Dean shoves that soul back in me, think how bad that could really be._

Death's magic show with Sam's soul – now you see it, now you don't – was, without a doubt, the reason Dean's little brother was, ironically, at Death's door.

Or was he?

Bobby sighed. "So...prognosis?"

The doctor closed the folder, holding it in the crook of his arm as he rubbed the tension from the back of his neck. "As a rule, intracerebral hemorrhage is more likely to be fatal than ischemic stroke since the hemorrhage is usually large and catastrophic. In fact, more than half of the people who have a large hemorrhage die within a few days."

_Dean doesn't care about me. He just cares about his little brother Sammy burning in Hell. He'll kill me to get that other guy back._

Bobby swallowed. "Is Sam in that half?"

"Not likely," the doctor answered, shaking his head. "Sam seems to be the rare exception to the rule in that although his hemorrhage was large and certainly catastrophic, he is stable, has a high Glasgow Coma Score, and is already showing signs of regaining consciousness."

Bobby glanced through the door's thin window, seeing Dean perched on the side of his brother's bed, grasping Sam's hand. "So Sam will be okay?"

"If by 'okay,' you mean Sam will be like he was prior to this...no. That's unlikely. Those who survive usually recover consciousness and some brain function over time. However, most do not recover all lost brain function."

Bobby swallowed again, thankful Dean wasn't in the hall to hear this right now. "Lost brain function?"

"Yes," the doctor confirmed, his casual tone indicating how many times he had had this conversation over the years. "The CT showed the most damage in Sam's left temporal lobe, so we can certainly expect problems with memory if nothing else."

Bobby felt his stomach clench. "Memory?"

"Yes," the doctor responded. "The temporal lobes are highly associated with memory skills, especially long-term memory. Left side lesions can also result in decreased recall of verbal and visual content, including speech perception. But the functions of the left temporal lobe are not limited to low-level perception; functions also extend to comprehension, naming, verbal memory, and other language functions. Memory for words can be drastically impaired, as can the ability to understand language – an impairment called Wernicke's aphasia – and as I'm sure you can imagine, this becomes extremely frustrating for patients, and they often exhibit aggressive behavior."

Bobby nodded, not surprised that Death had turned out to be one tricky sonuvabitch, and they had once again been screwed. The devil is in the details, as the saying went, but apparently...so was Death.

The wall he had erected in Sam's mind wasn't so much a concrete structure – keeping this over here and that over there – as it was a condition; a brain injury resulting in loss of brain function, which resulted in the loss of memory. And even if Sam did remember one day, his ability to not only understand language but to use it had also been damaged, which meant he would have memories he had no way of expressing; which would lead to intense levels of frustration – don't scratch – that often led to aggression.

_Dean's got a way to make it safe._

What a fucking joke. And the only one that had laughed, that had recognized it for the bullshit it was, was Soulless Sam.

And now...now...

Bobby sighed.

He didn't know what happened now.

The doctor shifted in the silence that had settled between them. "I know this is a lot to absorb," he said, his tone annoyingly gentle and sympathetic. "But the good news is that Sam is alive and will most likely pull through this. Everything else is dealt with one day at a time."

Bobby snorted. "That's easy for you to say."

"You're right," the doctor agreed patiently. "But that's where we are at this point. I'm sorry." He paused. "I'll be back in a few hours to check on things..."

Bobby nodded as the doctor left him standing alone in the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

**I been drummin' up my own hell again.**

'**Cause I never met a soul like the one I was missin'...**

**I been feelin' like my old self again.**

'**Cause Momma didn't raise me to be no victim.**

**~ Cory Chisel & the Wandering Sons ~**

* * *

Sam always did things ahead of schedule.

As an infant, he was rolling over and crawling before most babies even knew they had limbs. As a toddler, he was a walking, talking, potty-trained wonder, routinely dazzling diner waitresses with his dimpled smile and extensive vocabulary. As a kindergartener, he was reading chapter books within the first two weeks of starting school.

And so the trend went.

Sam did things his way, according to his schedule...and that usually meant shockingly early.

Which is why Dean should have expected this.

One minute he was sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, waiting for Bobby to bring back coffee and reading a pamphlet about stroke recovery and how it could take days or even weeks for patients to regain consciousness...and the next, he was staring at Sam, staring at him.

There was a beat of silence, hazel eyes gazing into green.

Dean swallowed, sliding the pamphlet onto the bedside table and feeling his heart beat faster in his chest. "Sammy?"

Sam blinked at him.

Dean narrowed his eyes, unsure if that was a good sign or a bad sign...or no sign at all. "Sam?" he tried again, lightly rubbing his brother's leg through the sheet. "You with me?"

Sam wrinkled his nose and then slowly lifted his arm, rubbing the back of his hand across his face and dislodging the nasal cannula.

"Whoa, dude. Wait a minute..." Dean leaned slightly forward, readjusting the thin clear tubing over his brother's ears, eyes searching Sam's face as he did so. Bobby had shared with him everything the doctor had said in the hall hours earlier about brain injury and memory loss. "Do you know who I am, Sammy?"

Sam continued to stare at him.

Dean felt the slow creep of dread crawl up his spine. "Sam..." He swallowed, afraid to ask again but needing to know. "Do you know who I am?"

Sam nodded.

Dean smiled, feeling physically weak from the relief that flooded through him. But still...he needed more. "Who, Sam? Who am I?"

There was silence, and Dean couldn't decide if Sam was trying to figure out the answer...or if he knew the answer, but couldn't say it...or if he neither knew the answer nor how to say it, and they were officially screwed.

"Sam..." Dean prompted, hating how desperate he sounded. "What's my name?"

Sam sighed.

Dean resisted the urge to do the same. "Sam..."

"D'n."

It was slurred and indistinct – much like it had been the first time Sam had ever said it – but it was still speech, and it was undoubtedly said with recognition and purpose.

Which made all the difference.

Dean felt tears sting his eyes. "That's right," he praised. And yet he couldn't leave it alone. He had to know one more thing, the one thing that identified him even more than his name. "And who am I to you, Sam?"

Sam sighed and closed his eyes.

"Sam..." Dean gently shook his brother's leg. "Look at me."

Sam did so, which was good. Dean had read that following simple commands was good. And although his glare was tired and weak, Sam's intent was clear – he wanted to be left alone.

Dean chuckled, having never been so glad to see a bitchface in all his life. Their situation was looking better and better by the second. Maybe Death hadn't screwed them over. "You can go back to sleep in a minute," he promised. "Just tell me...what am I to you?"

This time Sam seemed more alert and didn't hesitate. "A pain in my ass."

Dean blinked, stunned both by what was said and by the clarity with which it was spoken. "A wha..."

"A pain in my ass," Sam repeated and then quirked a smile to let his brother know he was joking. "But I think all big brothers are."

Dean continued to stare, afraid that speaking would wake him from what was surely a dream.

This was Sam.

_His Sam._

Alive. Awake. And not only cognizant and talking – but being a smartass.

Sam frowned. "What's wrong?"

Dean shook his head, his voice thick with emotion and soft with amazement. "Nothing."

Sam didn't seem to buy it. "You sure? Are you okay?"

Dean huffed a breathless laugh. Leave it to Sam – _his Sam_ – to have just endured Death's touch and suffered a hemorrhagic stroke as a parting gift...and yet still be concerned about Dean, about whether or not Dean was okay.

"Dean?" Sam persisted; his eyes wide; his voice quiet; his tone strong.

Dean closed his eyes at the word and tone because it was such a Sammy trait to do that – to persist – and do it in that trusting way that only Sam could make both strong and vulnerable.

When Dean still didn't respond, Sam attempted to sit up, bracing himself on his elbows.

And that got a response.

"Whoa, Sammy." Dean gently but firmly halted Sam's rise, hand splayed in the center of his brother's chest. "Calm down. I'm fine." He gave Sam a once over, lightly rubbing his chest. "Are you okay?"

Sam winced, hissing as he shifted under Dean's touch. "My chest hurts."

"Shit." Dean drew back his hand instantly. "Sorry, Sammy. I forgot."

Which was stupid. How the hell could he forget? He had watched Death shove his whole arm – up to his bony shoulder – into Sam's chest. Had heard his brother's screams.

Dean blinked. Enough of that. It was over. And if this was what he got for the price, it was well worth it. "What else hurts besides your chest?"

"My head," Sam admitted quietly, closing his eyes briefly.

"I bet," Dean agreed, thinking a wall-induced brain injury – a fucking stroke – would cause a headache every time. "What else?"

Sam opened his eyes and glanced down the length of his blanket-covered body. "My leg kinda hurts."

Dean nodded. The gash Sam had sustained in the calf of his leg had required sixteen stitches.

"Why does it hurt?"

Not, "Why does my chest feel like somebody put their arm through it?" or "Why does my head feel like it imploded?" – but Sam simply wanted to know why his leg hurt.

"Feels like stitches," Sam answered himself as he moved his leg beneath the sheet.

Dean nodded.

"How many?"

"Sixteen" he answered, leaving out the part about Sam free falling through a trap door as Bobby defended himself from a homicidal maniac who also happened to be named Sam.

"Huh," was all Sam said in response.

Dean chuckled.

Sam frowned. "What?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing. I'm still just a little freaked out about everything. About what happened..."

"What happened?" Sam repeated.

Dean nodded slowly, unsure if Sam was asking him what happened or if he was simply echoing his words. "Yeah." He paused. "Do you remember?"

Sam was silent for a few minutes, obviously thinking, and then shrugged. "Not really. I mean..." He squinted as if he was trying to see something beyond Dean. "I remember falling."

Dean swallowed against the urge to throw up. Maybe Sam did remember. "Falling?"

Sam nodded.

Dean did the same. "What did you fall through?"

"Not through," Sam corrected. "Fell in."

_Not through..._so he didn't remember his soulless self trying to kill Bobby and then falling through the floor. But _fell in..._

Dean swallowed again. "Fell in what?"

"A hole, I guess." Sam shrugged. "I don't really remember. I just fell into darkness and kept on going."

"Where did you land?" Dean asked casually, terrified of the answer and yet needing to hear; needing to know what Sam remembered, what they were up against; needing to know if Death did as he said he would.

Sam ducked his head, smiling shyly – the way he did when he was touched by something but didn't want Dean to tease him about it.

Dean narrowed his eyes. That was a strange reaction. "Sam?" he prompted. "Where did you land when you fell?"

Sam glanced up through his fringe of bangs. "In your arms," he answered quietly.

Dean felt his heart swell as tears instantly stung his eyes. How many times had he dreamt that? That he had caught Sam before he fell...or barring that, that he had been in Hell to catch him, to break his fall, to provide a soft landing and a quick escape.

Dean sighed shakily. "So..." He cleared his throat. "Where were you when you landed?"

"When you caught me," Sam corrected.

Dean nodded. Only _his Sam_ would want to make sure the details were right, that Dean got the credit he deserved.

Sam squinted again – and wasn't it funny that Sammy always did that when he was trying to remember?

Dean smiled softly. He had missed his brother and all the little idiosyncrasies and mannerisms that made Sam, Sam – _his Sam._ "Do you remember where you were when I caught you?"

"In the panic room," Sam finally replied. "I think..."

Dean was surprised Sam remembered that since he hadn't been conscious between receiving his soul and having the stroke.

Sam stared at him, seeking confirmation.

Dean nodded. "That's right."

Before Death had even disappeared, Dean had been by Sam's side; throwing off his restraints; lifting him up into his arms; holding his brother's back against his own chest while telling Sam it was going to be okay.

And amazingly, it seemed he had been right this time.

Dean cleared his throat, knowing if he kept asking questions, he would eventually get an answer he didn't like...but he had to keep going. "Where were you before that?"

"Before the panic room?"

Dean nodded again.

Sam shrugged, the gesture indicating there was nothing to remember for this question.

"You don't remember?" Dean clarified.

Sam shook his head. "Not really."

"What _do_ you remember?"

Sam shrugged again. "It was hot and dark and red..."

"Like Hell?" Dean blurted, and then literally bit his tongue, closing his eyes against his own stupidity.

Sam, though, seemed unaffected. "I don't know. Maybe." He paused. "Why?"

Dean opened his eyes and shook his head. "No reason." He smiled as if it was no big deal. "What else?"

Sam sighed. "After that it was really bright...and then..."

"Then?" Dean prompted.

Sam smiled shyly again. "Then I was with you," he replied, his tone and expression relaying the depth of his relief and happiness at waking up to find himself with his brother. He stared meaningfully at Dean. "Thanks."

Dean felt his face flush, which was ridiculous. Apparently Death had kept his promise – Sam remembered nothing of Hell or of even being soulless – so his brother had no way of knowing what Dean had gone through for him...for them.

Dean cleared his throat. "Thanks for what?"

Sam continued to stare at him, his eyes saying it all before he even spoke. "For whatever it is you did."

"Sam..." Dean shook his head, uncomfortable with his little brother's attention and adoration...and yet savoring it, clinging to it as a sign of things to come, of a restored relationship.

"Don't 'Sam' me, Dean." Sam flashed a mini-bitchface and then continued. "I don't know what happened or what you did, but I know you made it better."

_You always make it better._

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes, a classic response to anything that touched him, that made him want to cry like a girl.

And Sam – this Sam, _his Sam_ – knew it and would appreciate the seemingly dismissive sound and gesture for the reply it was, would recognize the truth of emotion behind the deceptive indifference.

There was silence between them. Not the awkward silence that had dominated for so long, for too long. But the companionable, everything-is-fine-as-long-as-I'm-with-you silence from years before.

They were content.

They were happy.

And that should've been clue enough that something was coming.

"So, when do I..." Sam's voice faded, his expression clouding with confusion. "What's that smell?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "What smell?"

Sam wrinkled his nose. "I don't know. I can't place it. Maybe like something's burning. Or maybe..." His voice faded again as he suddenly paled. He sank back into the bank of pillows, his hand fumbling for Dean's.

"Hey..." Dean called, immediately grasping Sam's hand. "What's wrong?"

"I..." Sam swallowed. "I don't know. I feel..." He swallowed again. "Dean..."

Something inside Dean's chest twisted at his brother's desperate tone. He had forgotten how it felt when Sam – _his Sam_ – was in distress. "What, Sammy? Tell me."

_And I'll make it better._

Only Sam didn't respond, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared beyond Dean, hand suddenly lax, body limp.

Panic seized Dean's heart. "Sam!" He released his brother's hand and grabbed Sam by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Sammy!" He lowered his face into Sam's line of vision. "Sam, please..."

Sam didn't respond; didn't move; didn't even blink.

And it was unnerving as...well...as Hell.

"No, no, no..." Dean murmured, shaking his head against the thought that suddenly flashed in his mind.

"Dean?"

Dean jerked in the direction of Bobby's voice. "Call the nurse!"

Although the scene he walked in on must have baffled him, Bobby didn't hesitate, placing the two cups of coffee on the bedside table before turning and yelling down the hall. "Hey! We need some help in here!"

Dean managed a deep breath. Freaking out wasn't going to help. He could freak out later when Sam was okay. "Sammy..." He swept his hand under his brother's bangs and then down to cup his cheek. "Sam, talk to me."

There was more unresponsive silence – Dean vaguely aware of Bobby coming to stand beside him; then Sam blinked and sagged into Dean's touch.

And just like that, it was over.

"Sam?" Dean called and then held his breath.

Sam moved his head restlessly, his vision unfocused but obviously trying to locate Dean by the sound of his voice. "Hmm..."

"Right here, Sammy," Dean soothed, rubbing his thumb over his brother's chiseled cheekbone, grounding him, guiding him back from wherever he just went. "Can you look at me?"

It took a few seconds, but Sam eventually focused on Dean's worried face and smiled weakly. "Hey."

Dean huffed an irritated, yet relieved, laugh. "Fuck, Sam. You scare the shit out of me, and all you can say is 'hey'? Jesus..."

Sam didn't verbally respond as he continued to blink drowsily at Dean, seeming to still not be completely with it.

"What the hell is going on?" Bobby asked, confusion and worry making his tone gruffer than usual.

Dean shook his head, still cupping Sam's cheek, looking deep into his brother's eyes for some clue. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I doubt it's anything good."

Bobby nodded in agreement and then shook his head in frustration. "Do you think – "

"What's wrong?" a voice asked from the door.

"Well, for starters, your response time to an emergency is about two minutes too slow," Dean growled, glaring over his shoulder at the frumpy nurse that now stood in the doorway.

The nurse scowled. "The monitors didn't indicate there was a problem. The alarms would have sounded if he was in danger."

Which was true. The monitors had not increased in tempo or given any indication that Sam was in distress.

But Dean knew what he saw and trusted himself – as well as his instincts as a big brother, as _Sam's_ big brother – more than he had ever trusted medical equipment.

"You know what?" Dean asked conversationally, still twisted around to look at her from where he sat on Sam's bed. "Fuck you and your monitors. I wanna see the doctor."

"He's busy," she responded, crossing her arms over her chest as though that was the final word.

Dean arched an eyebrow. Who did this bitch think she was dealing with? She was lucky he had other issues more important than her fat ass – like tending to his semiconscious little brother – or he would...

Dean stopped himself from his internal rant. He didn't have time for this shit – and most importantly, Sam didn't have time for this shit. They needed answers. And if the nurse didn't want to help them, then they would just help themselves. Not like they weren't used to it. They were hunters, and if the doctor was on the premises, it wouldn't take long to track him and find him.

Dean glanced at Bobby, receiving a nod from the older hunter and knowing the issue was as good as handled even before Bobby approached the door and stared the nurse into submission.

She stepped back, allowing him to exit the room, and watched as he walked down the hall. "Where's he going?" she demanded.

Sam made a sound – the one usually reserved for pained confusion – and shifted on the bed.

Dean immediately turned his attention back to his brother. "Sammy?"

As expected, Sam's eyes were glazed, the corners pinched. His face was pale, and he looked exhausted. "D'n..."

Dean narrowed his eyes. The same slurred version of his name as when Sam first awoke. Was there a pattern here? Something he was missing? "Yeah, Sam." He brushed his brother's bangs back, trying to get a better look at his eyes. "I think you left me for a minute. You back with me now?"

Sam nodded lethargically.

Well, that was convincing.

"Where is he going?" the nurse asked again, still staring in the direction Bobby went.

Dean ignored her.

Sam jerked, his surprised expression and soft groan indicating the movement was involuntary.

Dean didn't like this. Not at all. "Hey..." he called, keeping his voice calm as he rubbed Sam's arm. "What was that, huh?"

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed. "What was what?"

"Do you even know where he's going? Or are you just bluffing?" the nurse baited, now standing on the opposite side of Sam's bed, hands on her hips.

Sam startled at her close proximity and shrill voice, squeezing his eyes shut as he jerked again and then whimpered.

And that was it for Dean.

"Shut the fuck up and get out of this room, or I swear – woman or not – I will kick your ass!"

The nurse gasped dramatically. "You can't talk to me that way!"

Dean's expression turned lethal as he stood threateningly.

The nurse took a step back before spinning around and stomping out of the room.

"Bitch," Dean commented, watching her go.

"Jerk," came the response.

Dean blinked and turned to face his brother. "Sam?"

Sam smiled, looking tired but otherwise alert and lucid. "Yeah?"

Dean gaped at him. This was bizarre. Like the past two or three minutes hadn't even happened. "Are you okay?"

Sam nodded. "Sure."

"Sure?" Dean repeated incredulously.

"Well..." Sam amended. "I'm a little tired, and my head hurts. But it's no big deal."

"Dude..." Dean shook his head, speechless.

Sam frowned. "What?"

"What the fuck just happened?" Dean demanded, worry and fear making his tone sharp.

Sam's frown deepened. "When?"

"When?" Dean echoed, practically yelling. "Just now Sam! Just now when you totally zoned out into unresponsive, scare-the-shit-out-of-me mode – jerking and moaning and staring right through me. What the fuck was that?"

Sam stared at him blankly. "I don't..." He shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about, Dean."

"Jesus..." Dean hissed loudly, abruptly turning and pacing away from Sam's bed. He just got his brother back, and there was no way he was going to lose him to what Dean suspected was a malfunctioning wall...or brain injury...or whatever the fuck it was.

"I'm sorry."

The two words were spoken so softly that Dean almost missed them – would have probably not heard them, had anyone else said them. But since they came in Sam's voice, he heard them loud and clear.

Dean turned, his anger and frustration immediately deflating at the sight of Sam's large, misty eyes. And even though he didn't want to, he felt himself smile – because only _his Sam_ could work it like that, could be that sincere in his remorse about something he didn't even remember just because it had upset Dean.

Dean sighed, coming back to Sam's side and staring down at him. "It's okay," he soothed, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "It's not your fault. I just can't lose you again, Sammy. I just..." He shook his head.

Sam's eyes misted even more, and he nodded, understanding all that wasn't said. "I missed you, too."

Dean felt his smile widened – even as tears stung his eyes – and he nodded.

Silence settled between them.

"I've called Security," the nurse announced proudly, once again standing in the doorway.

Dean turned slowly, cutting his eyes at her. "And?"

She didn't respond – didn't have time to – before the doctor was standing beside her, nudging his way into the room as Bobby followed behind him.

Her eyes widened. "Where..." She paused. "I mean...how..."

"I don't bluff, sweetheart," Dean replied coolly. Which, of course, wasn't always true. But he didn't owe this woman any explanations.

The doctor glanced over his shoulder at the nurse. "Cancel the call to Security."

"But – "

"Do it," the doctor ordered as he turned his back on her.

Bobby sealed her dismissal with an artificial smile as he closed the door in her face.

"Bitch," Dean mumbled and arched an eyebrow as he noticed the doctor's nod of agreement.

"You don't know the half of it..." the doctor commented, removing a folder from under his arm.

Dean snorted. He liked this man...this – he squinted at the embroidered name on the white coat that he had been too upset and too overwhelmed to notice, to even care about, before.

_Dr. Hilliard. _

"I'm sorry you had to come find me yourself," Dr. Hilliard apologized, looking at Bobby.

Bobby shrugged. "I've tracked worse."

Dr. Hilliard chuckled; not realizing Bobby wasn't just replying in the typical way people did when they thought they were being clever – Bobby was serious. "Okay, let's see..." The doctor sighed, setting the folder on the bedside table and directing his attention to Dean. "Bobby tells me there was something going on with Sam earlier?"

Dean nodded, glancing at his brother and then smiling softly.

Sam was asleep – deeply, peacefully asleep.

_His Sam._

"Dean?" Dr. Hilliard prompted.

Dean blinked, turning back to face the physician. "I don't really know how to describe it. I mean...one minute we were talking, and – "

"Wait," Dr. Hilliard interrupted. "He was talking?"

Dean nodded.

"Like how? Like just making sounds or actually attempting to form words?"

"Neither." Dean smiled, knowing he was about to blow the doctor's mind. "He was talking just like we're talking. I was asking questions about what he remembered, and he was answering."

There was stunned silence.

Bobby stepped forward. "And?"

Dean stared meaningfully at the older hunter. "I think it worked."

Bobby closed his eyes briefly, undoubtedly feeling the same flood of relief and emotion that Dean had initially felt.

"So..." Dr. Hilliard still seemed baffled. "Sam not only wakes well before most patients in his condition, but he also talks and seems to remember?"

"Yep," Dean answered proudly. _That's my boy._

"Wow." Dr. Hilliard chuckled at the wonder of it. "What did he say?"

Dean shrugged, reverting to one of his favorite tactics of verbal evasion – stalling. He liked this doctor, but what was said between him and Sam, stayed between him and Sam.

Dr. Hilliard nodded knowingly. Fair enough. He had a brother himself. "What did he remember?"

Dean employed verbal evasion tactic #2: vagueness. "He doesn't seem to remember everything, but that's okay."

"Absolutely," Dr. Hilliard agreed. "With therapy and being exposed to stimuli related to the lost memories – photos, words, stories, music – there's a good chance that we can jog Sam's memory, and he will eventually remember what is currently blocked. And then he can – "

"No!" Dean interrupted, his voice louder and more forceful than he had intended, but holy shit! Had the doctor lost his fucking mind? No way were they going to "jog" Sam's memory. Sam's memory was officially benched and would not be "jogging" or otherwise exercised. Period.

There was a beat of awkward silence.

"Okay. Well, I guess we can discuss therapy at a later time," Dr. Hilliard suggested diplomatically, confused by such a strong negative reaction to what was generally perceived as a good thing. He glanced at Bobby, who quite possibly had the best poker face he had ever encountered.

A change of topic was in order.

"So..." The doctor sighed. "Back to what happened with Sam after he woke up and spoke."

Dean glanced at Sam. "Well, like I said...one minute we were talking, and the next minute he just..." He shrugged. "Zoned out or something. He wasn't moving or even blinking. He was just staring straight through me, wouldn't respond to his name, nothing."

"How long did it last?"

"A minute or so...maybe more. And then probably another minute before he was completely with it again."

"And did he say anything right before it happened? Did he mention a smell or a taste...or maybe even feeling scared for no reason?"

_What's that smell?_

_Dean..._

Dean swallowed. The way Sam had said his name had revived a long-dormant instinct within Dean – being a protective big brother – and he had immediately known that his little brother was indeed scared. But he had just assumed Sam was scared of what was happening...not that feeling scared was a sign of what was about to happen.

"Dean?" the doctor prompted.

"Yes." Dean nodded. "He asked me what was that smell, and then he was clearly upset."

"I see." Dr. Hilliard paused. "And afterwards, did Sam seem confused, maybe even had trouble speaking?"

Dean nodded again. "Like I said, he was totally out of it for probably another minute, and then when he finally came around, he seemed fine – except for being a little tired and having a headache – and had no idea what I was talking about."

Dr. Hilliard sighed.

Dean narrowed his eyes and glanced at Bobby, who had done the same.

"What?" they asked in unison.

The doctor sighed again. "Well, I can't say for certain until we run a few tests..." he prefaced. "But it sounds like Sam had a temporal lobe seizure, which is common after a patient has sustained a traumatic brain injury or stroke."

Dean stared at him, too overwhelmed by a flood of emotions and questions to respond.

Bobby shifted from where he stood. "That as bad as it sounds?"

Dr. Hilliard shrugged. "It differs from patient to patient. Temporal lobe seizures are often resistant to anti-seizure medications, but there are a few that we've found that help manage the condition in some people. If those don't work for Sam, you'll just have to be mindful of him. Most patients have auras – a smell or a taste or an unprovoked feeling of fear like I mentioned – and that will be a clue of what's about to happen, so you'll have time to at least make sure he's not in danger, maybe sit him down."

Dean swallowed. This was like Sam having visions all over again, only in reverse – not seeing the future but remembering the past. Or was he? "Does Sam see anything during these...um...these..." He cleared his throat, almost choking on the word. "Seizures?"

Dr. Hilliard shook his head. "No. Most patients aren't even aware that they had the seizure until someone tells them." He paused. "Then again, I've always wondered if patients do see something but are just unaware of what they see...maybe the images or information they're exposed to during the seizure is buried deep in their subconscious, and they don't even realize they know." He chuckled and shook his head. "I'm sure I'm over-thinking again, but the possibility is fascinating – to know something but be unaware that you know it, almost like keeping secrets from yourself."

Dean swallowed again. The more the doctor talked, the more nauseous he felt.

"And I think you're right about holding off on therapy for now," Dr. Hilliard commented. "I've had patients whose seizures increased in number or worsened in duration if they tried to remember what was lost, if they tried to push themselves too hard. A lot of patients feel as though they're trapped in the present and become agitated and frustrated by memories that are just beyond their reach. They can see the outline and keep trying to grasp it but just can't quite succeed – like an itch you can't scratch, you know?"

Dean glanced at Bobby, who was staring straight back at him, both sharing the same thought – that this was the catch; this was the manifestation of Death's warning. Don't scratch...unless you want to have a seizure...during which you'll remember. But you won't know that you remember until it's too late...until you're slowly driven crazy by the secrets hidden deep within the recesses of your own damaged mind.

_Now, Sam...I'm going to put up a barrier inside your mind. It might feel a little...itchy. Do me a favor – don't scratch the wall. Because trust me...you're not going to like what happens._

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. _Ah, Sammy..._

"In fact," the doctor continued, completely oblivious to the internal turmoil of the man standing opposite him. "Over time, repeated temporal lobe seizures can cause the part of the brain that's responsible for learning and memory – the hippocampus – to shrink. And brain cells lost in this area may cause even more problems, especially related to memory."

Dean opened his eyes and stared at the physician, willing him to shut up. To just...

"Don't take this the wrong way," Bobby drawled. "But shut up."

Dean felt a hint of a smile. Good ol' Bobby.

Dr. Hilliard nodded his understanding. "You sound like my wife..." he commented. "Only she doesn't start with the 'don't take this the wrong way' part. She just jumps right to the 'shut up' part." He smiled, indicating no offense was taken. "I know it's a lot to absorb. A lot has happened over the past few hours."

Dean snorted at the enormity of that understatement.

"But Sam is doing remarkably well."

Dean nodded in agreement and glanced at his brother as Sam continued to sleep; remembering how he used to watch baby Sam sleep for hours and thinking he would probably be just as content to watch this Sam – _his Sam_ – do the same now.

And that's when he felt it.

Without warning, a strange sense of peace came over him. And Dean realized what he had known all along – he could handle this. So what if Sam had a brain injury that sometimes made him have these zoned out seizures? Things could be worse. Things _had been_ worse. At least Sam – _his Sam_ – was back. Dean could handle anything else. And even better, they would handle it together. Like they used to.

Dean smiled softly. Just the thought comforted him, almost made him excited. "So now what?" he asked, eager to get Sam home – back in the Impala, back to Bobby's, back with him.

"Well, we'll need to keep Sam for at least a few more days. We'll run tests, maybe have the rehabilitation department conduct a couple of evaluations, and maybe even..." the doctor's voice trailed off as his pager beeped loudly. "Damn," he mumbled, glancing at it.

And completely missing the nonverbal exchange between Dean and Bobby.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Hilliard apologized. "But I'm going to have to go take care of this."

Dean nodded.

Bobby smiled.

And the doctor left.

There was a beat of silence after the door closed behind him.

Dean dug his keys out of the right front pocket of his jeans and tossed them to Bobby – just as the older hunter did the same with the robe from the hook on the back of the door. "Ten minutes."

"Side door."

They both nodded. Not like they hadn't done this before.

Bobby exited the room as Dean turned to his brother, setting the robe on the foot of the bed.

Sam didn't need tests or evaluations to confirm what they already knew. They already had enough information, already knew what they needed to know to best take care of Sam. Much like the visions Sam used to have, it seemed these seizures had warning signs before they struck – and Dean already knew what they were. He would be vigilant, would most likely know before Sam knew and would make sure his brother was safe and situated before it happened.

And the memory issue wasn't an issue at all. Sam wasn't _supposed_ to remember, and neither Dean nor Bobby would ever speak of it again. Keeping secrets from yourself wasn't necessarily bad if it helped you cope – and they would have to take their chances.

Dean shook himself from his internal dialogue of rationalization and approached the bed, lightly rubbing Sam's arm. "Sammy..."

Sam stirred beneath his touch.

"C'mon, Sam..." Dean encouraged a little louder.

Sam sighed and slowly opened his eyes, staring blearily up at his brother.

Dean smiled. "You with me?"

Sam nodded, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. "Mm-hmm."

"Good, 'cause Bobby's downstairs with the Impala," Dean informed, sliding his arm behind Sam's shoulders and helping his brother sit up.

"We're leaving?" Sam asked groggily.

"Yep," Dean confirmed, pushing a few buttons on the various monitors before gently removing the electrodes and IV lines from his brother, pleased with himself when no alarms sounded. It was true. He was awesome.

Sam yawned and wrinkled his nose. "Do you smell something?"

Dean froze.

Again?

Already?

Seriously?

"No," Dean answered cautiously, removing Sam's nasal cannula and trying to slow the rhythm of his own breathing. He could handle this. No big deal. "Do you?"

Sam nodded, even that small movement startling uncoordinated.

Dean returned the nod. "Like something's burning?"

"Mmm..."

Dean glanced at his brother, startled to see that Sam was already gone to wherever he went as he stared unblinkingly past Dean and into the distance. "That was quick," Dean commented, feeling surprisingly calm as he continued readying Sam to depart. This seemed better than visions; at least Sam wasn't in excruciating pain before or after. Confusion and fatigue with minor headaches was preferable to debilitating migraines that often lasted for days.

Dean pushed back the sheet, pulling Sam's legs toward him and over the side of the bed; then reached for the robe. He gently guided his brother's arms through the sleeves, reminded of all the times he had dressed Sam over the years – infant, toddler, child, sick adolescent, injured adult; all versions of Sam..._his Sam._ "Almost ready, dude?" He glanced at his watch. "Once minute since you started this one." His eyes scanned Sam's face. "And four minutes to make it downstairs, or else Bobby will bitch like the old man he is, huh?" Dean smiled, squeezed Sam's shoulder. "Sammy?"

A few more seconds passed before Sam jerked, and even before he blinked or made a sound, Dean knew it was over.

Dean sighed as he continued to keep physical contact with his brother, rubbing Sam's arm encouragingly and willing himself to wait; knowing it would take at least another minute for Sam to truly orient himself.

And he was right.

Within the next minute, Sam focused on him and smiled sleepily. "Hey."

Dean smiled back. It was embarrassing and ridiculous how happy Sam could make him with just one simple word. "Hey, yourself." He paused. "You okay?"

Sam nodded.

Dean did the same, already knowing the answer to his next question but still wanting to test the waters. "You remember what just happened?"

Sam hesitated and then frowned. "What?"

Dean shook his head, deciding he would never ask for trouble by asking Sam that question again. "Nothing." He patted Sam's leg. "You ready?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Bobby's waiting downstairs, right?"

"Right," Dean confirmed, helping Sam ease off the mattress and cradling his brother's elbow as Sam found his balance.

Sam winced, grunting from the pain caused by putting weight on his stitched leg – and then stumbled from the dizziness of being upright.

Dean narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip at Sam's reaction, not even realizing how seamlessly he had slipped back into his role of big brother. "You good?"

Sam nodded and yawned – then yawned again – as they began moving toward the door.

Dean smiled knowingly. Sam would be asleep before the Impala even left the hospital's parking lot. "You sure?"

Sam smiled weakly, reminded of how good it felt to have Dean worry about him, to have Dean by his side. "Yeah, I'm sure." He glanced at his brother. "What about you? Are you good?"

Dean smiled at the question; because no one had his back, no one cared about him, no one knew him and loved him like his little brother, like _his Sam_. And although he knew things were still complicated – knew they would still face challenges and setbacks and heartache along the way – Dean felt happier than he had in years because they would face it all together. Him and Sam against the world; the way it always had been; the way it was always meant to be; the way it _would be_ until...

"Dean?"

Dean blinked, noticing Sam's concerned expression and realizing they had stopped at the closed door.

"You good?" Sam asked, even though he was the one who was leaning heavily against Dean; his leg obviously bothering him even as he rubbed unconsciously at his sore chest and squinted against the pressure behind his eyes.

"Yeah," Dean assured, squeezing Sam's shoulder affectionately as he opened the door. "I'm good."

And he was.

_His Sam_ was back – and it was time to move on with life.

_**FIN**_


End file.
